The Final Hour

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  After the meal was concluded, and Henri was about to rise, Annette spoke. There had been a silence for some time. She spoke very quietly, her regard fixed upon Henri, her little hands clasped together on the table.

  ‘Henri, I’d like to talk to you, if you don’t mind.’

  There was something in her sweet voice that prevented his impatience. He looked at her sharply. She was so still. She was even smiling, though he could see, in the peculiar vivid air, that her upper lip was beaded with moisture. But her blue eyes were unfaltering and very bright. He drew his chair back to the table, and waited. ‘Yes?’ he said, in his dull and monotonous voice.

  The instinct in him which was always aroused at the hint of danger awakened now. Even his skin was aware prickling strangely. But he showed no sign of this. He sat there, stolid and immovable, waiting.

  He saw the movement in her thin white throat, as she swallowed thickly. He saw that she was trembling slightly. She still looked at him directly, and she still smiled. But the smile was painful.

  ‘Please don’t be angry with me, darling,’ she said. (How hard and firm her voice was, but how strained!) ‘But I’ve thought about this for a long time.’

  ‘What?’ he said, heavily.

  He saw her little pale fingers tighten together. She lifted her chin a little higher and gazed at him valiantly.

  ‘First, I’ve got to ask you a question, Henri. Please be honest with me. Please answer me, if you know. Do you know about Papa’s will—what it contains?’

  He was silent. He stared at her sombrely. Then all at once, he pressed his hands upon the table, pushed back his chair, and got up. He went to the windows, and stood before them, looking out unseeingly at the rising thunder-heads against the crimson west. He heard a soft movement beside him. Annette stood there, facing him. She put her hand on his arm. But he would not look at her, though his muscles flinched at her touch.

  ‘Henri,’ she whispered, urgently, ‘I must know.’

  ‘Why?’ he muttered, not looking at her. But she saw his grim stark profile in the dark and stormy light.

  She sighed deeply. ‘Please believe me. I must know. It is so very important to me. Henri, if you know at all, you must tell me.’ Now her voice broke. ‘Henri, I’ve got to know. Don’t ask me why. I can only tell you this: I can’t bear not knowing.’

  He did not speak for a moment or two. Now his harsh profile was dogged and stern. ‘Yes, I know,’ he said.

  She dropped her hand. She stood beside him, still and waiting, all her passionate pleading in her eyes. Slowly, he looked down at her, and then suddenly turned away again. ‘Please tell me,’ she said.

  He was silent once more. But he could feel her waiting, gently obstinate, strongly determined. Then he spoke: ‘You know the provision. War, or a year, or when I give the word. That was your father’s express condition.’

  She said, breathlessly, pleading: ‘Tell me, Henri.’

  He turned to her again, his mouth opening on impatient words. Then he saw her face. He felt his rare compassion for her. His face became quite gentle.

  ‘Even though your father wouldn’t want it, Annette?’

  But she said, looking into his eyes: ‘Tell me, Henri.’

  He hesitated. The he told her. He watched her closely as he did so. She did not move. But her eyes became vivid and brilliant blue light. When he had ended, she smiled a little, and sighed, over and over.

  ‘Dear Papa,’ she murmured. She moved a step or two away.

  Then her face saddened. ‘But poor Antoine. It will be terrible for him. I can only hope that Papa knew best.’

  All at once, she seemed exhausted, broken. She moved away blindly, fumbled for the chair, and fell into it. Her head dropped on her breast. Her hands hung at her sides, slackly. The stormy light, falling in a shaft through the windows, lay on her fair hair, So that it was like a halo. Henri could not see her face, he had turned to watch her go, but he did not move from his position.

  ‘Believe me, your father knew best,’ he said, with unusual gentleness.

  But she did not speak.

  ‘You won’t, of course, tell this to anyone?’ he added.

  But she did not seem to have heard. He frowned a little. He began to move towards her when she spoke, and the sound of her voice, oddly strong and without emotion, stopped him abruptly. It was all the more odd to hear that voice, for she had not stirred in her chair, had not lifted her head. It was as if her voice came from near her, and not from her lips, themselves. Henri’s heart began to beat heavily, with a dull pounding, at her words:

  ‘I am glad you’ve told me. It’s solved so many things. You see, Henri, I want a divorce. I couldn’t ask you until I knew.’

  And now there was only silence in the room, broken by the gathering mutter of thunder and the stirring of the restless trees. Henri stood at the window. His hands: had knotted into fists. His face was in darkness.

  ‘Why?’ he asked, at last.

  Her figure was only a blur now, in the spectral gloom, her hair a diffused gleam. Her head had fallen a little more, but that was all.

  ‘I couldn’t ask you before,’ she said, and her voice was a sibilant and piercing whisper. ‘But now I can. I’ve wanted a divorce for a long time. I—I’ve wanted to be alone. I’ve never been happy.’

  And then she felt her husband beside her. He had placed his hand on her shoulder. At his touch she sighed, over and over, and shivered a little. He felt her long trembling.

  ‘No,’ he said, gently, ‘you’ve never been happy. I know that. I’ve never made you happy; I never tried. I’m sorry, my dear. Very sorry. But, there it was. I don’t believe I could ever have made anyone happy.’

  She did not lift her head. But her hand rose, and fell upon his fingers, which still lay on her shoulder. He felt their cool trembling touch, and something contracted painfully in his chest.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she said, faintly. ‘We shouldn’t have married, in the beginning. It was my fault really. I—I couldn’t be anything to you, dearest. I couldn’t give you children. When— I knew—that was when I should have let you go. But I was selfish.’

  He said, in a strange loud voice, foreign even to his own ears: ‘You were never selfish, Annette! It wasn’t in you to be selfish.’ He added, and now his voice faltered, roughly: ‘I was never fit for you, my dear. No one was. You’ve always been everything that was good and kind and sweet and loyal. I’ll never forget you, Annette. Never.’

  She drew a deep breath. Then, very gently, she put aside his hand. She stood up and faced him, frail and small, but very gallant. She was even smiling, though her colour, in the thickening gloom, was so ghastly that it was the face of a ghost that confronted him.

  ‘But I want you to forget, darling,’ she said softly. ‘You see, I’m going away. Perhaps I’ll never come back. I wouldn’t want you to remember me, not in the least. Except, perhaps, if you were ever fond of me, just a little.’

  He said, his voice shaking: ‘I have been fond of you, Annette. I think only I really knew what you are.’

  She lifted her hands involuntarily, and he took them quickly, holding them with strength. They were so cold and thin, and lifeless. He said, without thinking: ‘Annette, won’t you change your mind?’

  He felt her fingers stiffen. She threw back her head, and her clear blue eyes fixed themselves on his, steadfastly.

  ‘No, Henri. I’ve thought of this for a long time. I really want a divorce. It would make me—more content. But,’ and her lips shook, I’m so glad you asked me! I can’t tell you how glad! I can’t tell you how happy it makes me!’

  He dropped her hands. She continued, quite firmly: ‘I wanted to know, before everyone knew, about Papa’s will. It was best, wasn’t it?’

  And then, with shocked compassion, with profound gratitude and humility, he understood. He was so stunned that his vision whirled before him with sparks and flashes of light.

  ‘It was best for you,’ she whispered.
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br />   He took her into his arms and pressed her head against his shoulder. He could not speak. He could only hold her, his fingers in her soft hair. She could feel the pounding of his heart, his deep sighs. She clung to him, not strongly, but gently. When he turned her face up, and kissed her lips, her breath stopped, and her eyes closed.

  CHAPTER LX

  One evening Annette called her brother, Antoine, and asked him to come to Robin’s Nest, alone. Henri was in Washington again, she said, and there was something which she wished to say to Antoine.

  Her tone and words, though quiet, even indifferent, caused some inner excitement in the subtle Antoine. He came at once. His sister, in her mourning black, seemed frailer to him than ever, though she was quite composed. He saw that she regarded him somewhat intently and sadly, and that there was something personal in her regard. He kissed her with real affection, and sat near her, holding her hand.

  ‘Well, my pet, what’s bothering you now?’he asked, lightly. He reached up to tuck a soft bright curl behind her ears. His touch, his voice, his affectionate manner, almost broke her heart. For the first time she felt an unreasoning bitterness against her father. She bit her lips to keep it from a treacherous trembling. Perhaps Papa and Henri had been wrong all the time. She looked at her brother’s dark narrow face and shining black eyes, and again her bitterness rose until it was a taste of gall in her mouth.

  She withdrew her hand from his, but her expression was all love. She hesitated, looked away from him. ‘I want to tell you, first of all,’ she murmured. ‘You’re my brother, and so, I thought it best. It’s all so confusing, you see. But I know you’ll understand, Tony dear.’

  ‘Well, Nita,’ he said, as she hesitated, using his old pet name for her. ‘What is it? Is it really so important?’ But he knew it was important, and leaned alertly towards her.

  She drew a deep breath, then said, steadily: ‘I am going to Reno in a week or so, dear. I’m getting a divorce from Henri.’ He stared at her blankly. He had drawn back from her a little. His hands tightened on the arms of his chair. He began to smile; there was a dancing glitter in his eyes. ‘Yes?’ he;said. ‘Yes? Why?’

  When she did not answer, he said: ‘At this late date? You remember, I advised you to do that over a year ago. Why now? Why the sudden change of mind?’

  She gazed at him unwaveringly. ‘I think it best,’ she answered, with calm.

  He stood up, unable to remain sitting. He walked quickly up and down the room, his hands in his pockets. His face was inscrutable, but darkly elated. Then he swung back to her.

  ‘Reno? Why Reno? Why not here, in Pennsylvania? And, on what grounds?’

  Before she could answer, he continued, swiftly: ‘Adultery?’ ‘Adultery?’ she murmured, drawing her fine light brows together and regarding her brother with mingled reproach and affront. That’s absurd, Tony. You know it. I am going to sue for a divorce on the grounds of incompatibility, of course.’ Now his expression darkened. He stood beside her, scrutinizing her almost savagely. His eyes narrowed, became malignant. ‘So,’ he said, softly, ‘he’s throwing you out at last, eh? So he can marry that bitch?’

  She rose quickly to her feet, shaking violently, her eyes blazing. ‘Tony! How dreadful of you!’

  But, engrossed with his own tumultuous thoughts, he exclaimed: ‘He couldn’t do it while our father was alive, no! How can he do it now? What does he know about our father’s will? Does he know? God, I’d like to know about that!’

  He began to walk up and down again, with increasing swiftness. He passed and repassed his sister, who stood in desperate silence, watching him. He stopped before her, glaring down at her. But she knew he did not see her.

  ‘He must know about the will, or he wouldn’t dare demand a divorce! He must know it is safe! My God, why is it safe? What is in that accursed will?’

  She reached out and caught him by his arms. She shook him a little. ‘Tony, you don’t understand! He didn’t ask me for a divorce. It was I who asked.’ She paused, her voice quivered, and she swallowed. ‘Please believe me. I am telling you the truth. I’ve never lied to you, have I, Tony? When I asked him for a divorce, he asked me if I wouldn’t change my mind.’

  Antoine stopped, rigidly, in the very moment when he was about to wrench himself away from her. Now he was smiling again, evilly. ‘So,’ he said, softly, ‘he asked you to change your mind, did he? Now, I wonder why? I really wonder why.’

  He threw back his head and laughed, silently. Then he pushed his sister back into her chair, and sat beside her. ‘Tell me some more,’ he said.

  She could not endure the sight of his gloating, his dark smile and laughter. She dropped her eyelids convulsively. When he tried to take her hand again, she withdrew it with a shudder. Papa was right, she thought. But her love for her brother was like a terrible ache in her heart.

  Her words were so low that he could hardly catch them when she spoke. He bent his head towards her. ‘You are wrong, Tony. He asked me to change my mind because he was sorry for me.’ Now he saw the slow silvery tears dropping from beneath her lashes. ‘He was so sorry for me. But, he was glad, too. He was glad to be rid of me. I can’t blame him. I should never have married him. He never wanted me.’ His elation faded. He scowled at her closed white face. Then he took her hand again, and rubbed its coldness between his own hands. Now he was all heaviness, all presentiment.

  ‘You are telling the truth, Nita?’ he asked, insistently. ‘You did ask for a divorce? Would you mind telling me why?’ She did not open her eyes. She said, feebly: ‘Because I can see at last how wrong it was of me to have married him. It’s been nearly sixteen years now. All this time—I’ve held him. It was wicked. Yes, I can see it now. I only hope it isn’t too late for him.’

  Her low and faltering words struck like stones against him. He was no longer gloating, no longer exultant. Henri would not have acceded to the divorce had it not been safe, had he not siome assurances that it was safe. Then, there was nothing in the will that could ruin Henri should he divorce Annette. Antoine moistened his cold lips.

  But still, he could not resist asking: ‘I don’t quite understand. Has he agreed to the divorce?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘It is all arranged. His lawyers are drawing up settlements. But I am going to refuse—anything. I have more than enough. I—I don’t know what is in Papa’s will, but I know that he wouldn’t have forgotten me. Besides, I have part of Mama’s money, too.’

  He saw that she was terribly ill and broken despite her valour. He looked at her intently, and for the first time he thought of his sister’s suffering. A black and evil shadow settled on his features.

  ‘Annette,’ he said, harshly, ‘you are a fool. You are releasing him so he can marry that—that trollop. Don’t you know that?’

  She turned to sim swiftly, and he saw the bright blue fire of her eyes. But her tone was very quiet and unmoved: ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Tony. I don’t think Henri intends to marry again. I hope he may. I hope there is still enough time to—to right things. For him. I don’t care whom he marries, so long as he is happy. That is all that matters.’

  He stared at her gloomily. ‘Annette, you know you can ruin him, even now, don’t you? Don’t you think you owe something to yourself? Don’t you think there should be justice for you? You know that all these years he’s been unfaithful to you, that the things he has done with other women have been a scandal. Haven’t you any pride? Is there nothing I can say to make you change your mind, and drop this divorce?’

  He thought: If he marries Celeste, then he’ll have Christopher, and others.

  She said, clearly: ‘I don’t believe Henri has been unfaithful. If he has, then it is still my fault. What had I to give him? I was nothing to him. He could have divorced me many times, but he didn’t. He has been—kind—to me.’

  ‘Kind!’ He burst into ribald laughter. ‘Only because of our father! Didn’t you know even that?’

  But she answered with grave
steadiness: ‘Yes.’

  He was about to speak, then was silent. He studied her with piercing scrutiny, and she did not turn away from him. Then, shrugging slightly, he went to the windows, and stood, with his back to her. He played with a tassel on the draperies. She saw his thin dark hand moving restlessly, and with little abstracted tuggings. All at once, she was vaguely startled. She discerned that there was something quite strange about her brother. She looked at him earnestly, at his lean and elegant figure, and the outline of his small-boned sleek head. What was there that was so changed about Antoine? She could not tell. But involuntarily she took a step towards him, and said, softly: ‘Tony?’

  He did not turn for several moments, and then he did so, reluctantly. Now, she could not see his face, for it was averted, bent aside. However, she caught the impression of brooding and sombreness.

  She made a small and fluttering motion with her hands. ‘Tony? Is there something wrong? You don’t seem quite yourself, dear.’

  He lifted his head and gazed at her. He is tired, exhausted, she thought, all her love for him opening wide in her heart. There is something wrong! ‘Tony,’ she said, impulsively, ‘is it anything I can help?’

  ‘No,’ he answered, with indifference. Then he came back to her and stood before her, and again she had the impression of strangeness, of tired immobility. But when he spoke again, it was with gentleness: ‘Nita, what are you going to do?’

  She pressed her hands quickly together, palm to palm, and though the evening air was hot and close, he saw that she shivered just a little. But she was smiling. ‘You mean, after I get my divorce? I don’t know, dear. What can I do? I can’t stay here, I only know that.’

  ‘So?’ he said, tentatively, as she hesitated.

  She walked back into the room, and now it was she who turned her back to him. She stood, holding onto a chair. She began to speak as if to herself:

  ‘What is there I can do? All my life, I’ve lived uselessly, devouring the provender that could have been used to better advantage by others. I’ve eaten food I never earned, and worn clothes that were bought with others’ money. It has just begun to occur to me that I’m a parasite, that I have no reason to live. If I had had children, there might have been some excuse for my existence.’